If I Wasn't Here
by joannacamilley
Summary: What would happen if I wasn't here? Would you miss me? Shane's POV
1. Would You Miss Me?

What would happen if I wasn't here? Would you miss me? Would anything change? Would you ever recover? I can answer them.

If I wasn't here, I wouldn't be here. As simple as that.

Would you miss me? Well, only you would know the answer to that. But I'd like to think so.

Everything would change. Nothing would change. Select things will change. It all depends on what you mean. Instead of 5 people living in this house, there would only be 4. There's a change in itself.

You will recover one day. You may not think it now, but soon, I will be long forgotten, just a body rotting in the ground. You will move on, find someone else to take up my space in your heart.

So, that's it. That's what will happen. What will I do with this information?

Nothing.

I just keep living my life day by day, hoping for a better tomorrow.

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**I shouldn't even have published this, but maybe you liked it. :\ This is Shane's POV, by the way, Nate and Jason are his brothers, hence the whole 5 in the house thing. **

**Let's just say, I was feeling really sad when typing this... I'm not suicidal or anything, just slightly depressed.**

**Please review.**


	2. Can Anyone Help Me?

I tentatively walk into the room. You're sitting on the couch, knitting while watching some soap opera. I could never understand the things you do, you act like a woman well beyond your years. I guess it's good, I need someone mature enough to handle me.

"Hey, Mitchie…" I quietly say as I slip onto the couch next to you. You nod, acknowledging my presence without taking your eyes off the screen or missing a stitch. You never cease to amaze me, and I'm not talking about your multitasking abilities.

"Mitch, I really need to talk to you," I admit, looking down and playing with the yarn ball on the couch. You tear your eyes away from the TV and place the knitting on the coffee table. You then turn your whole body towards me and reach out for my hands while I'm still at them. I see them lay on top of mine, your thumbs rubbing the back of my hands. I finally look up, my eyes meet with your concerned ones.

"Shane, what's wrong?" you ask, squeezing my hands.

I'm having an inner turmoil, but I try not to let it show. You don't know about my problems, I don't want to ruin this perfect little universe you seem to think we live in.

"Have you… Have you ever thought of dying?" I finally ask, my eyes searching yours for any emotion. First, I see shock. You really didn't expect me to say that. Then I see confusion. You don't know why I'd ask that, but you've never seen me depressed. Finally, I see the think I secretly want yet I was also dreading. Fear.

"Sh-Shane… what are you talking about?" you slowly ask me, your grip on my hands tightening. I turn my hands over and grasp yours, pulling them into my lap.

"Mitchie, I…I don't know how to explain it. Most of the time, I'm happy, you know? I feel happy to be alive, like I can do and achieve anything I want. Like I have all the time in the world to do everything I want." I look away from your eyes. The fear is turning into hurt since I haven't shared this with you yet. You know what I'm about to say isn't going to be good. "But sometimes… I don't feel worth it," I whisper.

"Worth it?" you lower your eyebrows.

I sigh and look down. "I feel like it's not worth it to live. I mean, we're all going to die one day, right? Why go through all the trials and tribulations of life if no one's going to make it out alive." I chuckle darkly at my little joke. "It's just…too much pressure," I confess. You frown as I slowly, but surely, start breaking down. You pull your hands out of mine and place them on my back, pulling me towards you. I cry a little on your shoulder as you rub my back and say soothing words.

"I mean," I start saying as I pull away from you. "Everyone looks up to me. Little kids see me as their idol, their parents watching everything I do to make sure I stay a good influence to their children. The whole world is watching and I…I can't take it…" I hate showing weakness. You know I love you because I'm letting everything out, crying freely in front of you. You pull me back in and we sit crying for a few minutes. I'm not sure why, I didn't even get to the worst of it yet.

"Mitchie," I say as I pull away again. I sigh and look at the TV, which you muted. The characters are talking, some intense scene that every soap opera needs. Someone's probably in a coma or cheating on their husband. "I've been having these…feelings lately. I've seriously thought about…dying." I close my eyes in shame, but it doesn't erase the image of your face. Shock, more fear, panic, helplessness, despair. It all floods into your features as I tell you my most guarded secret.

"Shane…please…" you whimper, trying to convey your feelings on what I just said without breaking out into hysteria. I weakly smile and rub your hands, switching the roles from before. I lean in towards you.

"I'm not…I'm not going to kill myself. I won't let it get that far…that's why I need your help," I murmur to you, our foreheads touching. You nod frantically, sniffling and trying to keep your tears from falling.

I grimly smile and look deep into your eyes. "You're one of the only reasons I have to keep going."

Now that the truth is out…can you help me? Can anyone help me?

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**So I decided to do a bit more. Maybe another chapter or two.**

**Please review.**


	3. Dying is Easy

Dying is easy, it's living that's hard.

Have you ever thought about it? Probably not, not Mellow Mitchie. I have, though. A lot. A lot more than you'd know.

Why is that? How can death be just a step away, so easy anyone can do it, yet we all choose to live? We're all going to end in the same place, how does this year differ from ten years? Or even today differ from tomorrow?

Maybe there's something wrong with me. Do normal people think like this? I don't think so, but what would I know. I haven't been normal in any way for years. Being famous changes you.

Maybe that's what's wrong with me. Fame. Many things can happen once you get it. It can go to your head, just like it did to me. It could make you insanely happy, everything you've worked for and wanted becoming a reality. It could make you depressed, crazy even.

It could make you kill yourself.

I've known quite a few people that went crazy with fame. It's truly terrible. Once people know your name, your trapped. You can't go outside due to paparazzi everywhere and you can't stay in 24/7. The paparazzi have no shame, they follow you everywhere, take pictures of whatever you're doing. You could just be walking to your mailbox and a dozen of them will swarm you like mosquitoes. They search for anything scandalous, even if it's not true. People eat it up, making them more frantic with their jobs.

And the fans. Oh, God, the fans. If they catch a glimpse of you, you're done. They'll scream and chase you down, demanding pictures and autographs. Even without the paparazzi, you can never go outside normally again, unless you call being chased down by people normal.

So, as I was saying, fame is dangerous. It's not for everyone. It should come with one of those advisory warnings: _Warning, may cause invasion of privacy, depression, erratic behaviors, and suicide._

I wonder… If I was normal, never became famous, would I be in this position now? Would my brain still function this way or is this only brought on by fame? There are so many variables, but it doesn't change what's right here, right now.

So, back to my question, why is it that life is much harder than dying? It's because death is final, no go backs. Life, well, you have to deal with everything. Take each problem head-on. Some people can't deal with it. I'm beginning to think I'm one of them.

Dying… There's just so much allure in it. What is it like? What happens the second you cross over to the land of the dead, leaving your body with the ones you love? It's been glamorized by the media to make it seem cool. I'm still firm with my decision not to kill myself, but I can't help but wonder. What are some ways I can end it? I'm deathly afraid (haha, irony) of drowning, so that's out. I would hate to just hang there as I choke to death, so hanging is out. Guns…no. Jumping off a building…that holds some appeal. Why not go out in style? Also, my last few seconds in this cruel world would be spent flying, something I've always wanted to do. All I'd have to do is make sure it's high enough. If not, I'd still be alive with severe brain damage, paralyzed, or both. Other than that, the only other method I'd consider is cutting. I've always had a morbid fascination with blood, but I've never cut myself. If I were to die, I should at least satisfy my fascination of the forbidden liquid. The color is so rich, beautiful if I may say. The texture…

But alas, all that has been said isn't going to happen. Not when I have you to help me.

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**I've decided every other chapter will just be Shane thinking, then the others will be the actual story. This is pretty much how I feel, almost like I just took out a page form my journal (metaphorically speaking, I don't actually have a journal) and made it apply to Shane. Of course, the whole fame thing doesn't apply to me, I never have nor want to be famous. Basically, you just read my view of fame. I'd rather be normal than famous, you miss out on so much otherwise. **

**So, yeah... I actually read some emo stories while writing this, maybe it made it better? Hopefully. So maybe like 4 chapters, if I keep going on with this philosophical thinking on Shane's part.**

**Please review.**


	4. Worthless

**I messed up. Really bad. As a result, both my parents now hate me and it's renewed my depression. I know I should update my other stories, but they are too happy for me. I needed something similar to my problems, which is where this story fits in. So because of my stupidness, you have a new chapter. I hope you like it, I guess.**

**Disclaimer: Nope, you're not reading any official Camp Rock stuff. Sorry.**

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You glance over at my tapping foot. It's really annoying, but I can't help it. I know you're too scared to tell me to stop. I wish I would stop. It's only freaking me out more.

"Shane Gray?" the receptionist calls. You smile feebly at me as I take in a deep breath. I sand up, my hand pulling you up too. We walk up to the desk together, my hand clenched tightly in yours. I try not to take in my surroundings, the sickly green walls and the sanitized smell. I instead decide to look at the pamphlets on the desk while you take care of everything. You're maturity is really shining out right now.

I leaf through each pamphlet, reading the titles._ Eating Disorders: Much More Than Body Image_ ,_ Schizophrenia: Me, Myself and I , Self Harm: Deeper Than The Skin_. Couldn't they pick better titles? I freeze as the next one glares up at me.

_Depression: Sadness That Leaves An Impression_

I try to push the paper aside, but the next one has me gripping the desk.

_Suicide: The Final Destination_

I start breathing harshly. Your eyes flicker to me in concern while still speaking lowly to the receptionist. I can't even fake a smile, I just gulp and shake my head.

"Right this way," someone says to out left. I hesitantly turn. I know who it is. We follow the woman in a suit down a hallway, 5th room on the left. She opens the door for us, an easy smile on her face. I slowly ease into the room. This is the part I've been dreading.

A mahogany desk sits in the right corner of the green room. There's a green armchair near the middle of the room, facing the far wall. In front of it is the dreaded lounge.

"Have a seat," the woman says, gesturing to the lounge. "I'm Dr. Green and I will be your psychiatrist for the next few months."

Huh. So that's why everything is green.

"Nice to meet you," you say, stiffly holding out your hand for her to shake.

I just sigh and stay quite.

"So today, we'll just get to know each other, okay?" Dr. Green cheerfully says.

You quickly nod, sitting straight up showing Dr. Green she has all of your attention. I, on the other hand, am slouching and sulking on the other side of the lounge chair.

"Okay, so Shane, how old are you?"

"Twenty," I murmur.

Dr. Green nods and writes it down. "And how long have you been feeling sad?"

"Few months…" I mutter.

You frown at me as she writes it down too. "Is there a particular thing that triggered it, that you know of?"

I stay silent for a little bit. Just as you look back at me to see what's wrong, I open my mouth. "I don't know, maybe just life in general. Everything and everyone is moving forward and I'm…I'm just me. I feel like I can't keep up with everything, I'm just an inconvenience… " I choke up.

You gaze sympathetically at me, but I look away.

"I see…" Dr. Green says as she jots it all down. "Why do you feel like an inconvenience?" She stares me directly in the eye.

I fidget. "Umm… Well, I think I just cause more pain than joy. That If I never came along, everyone's life would be better." I hear your choked breathing, but I try to ignore it. "I know there's something wrong with me, that's why I came to you."

Dr. Green nods. " Okay, so I have some background information. Here's a journal. I want you to write in it every day, write down every emotion you feel and why it came on. Bring it back in two weeks and we'll go over it. But just remember, I can't help you if you don't want help. So, until next time," she briefly smiles at us.

You gulp and stand up, almost yanking me out of her room. I stare at you incredulously as you drag me outside and into your car, where you push me into the driver's seat. You run around to the other side and collapse into the passenger seat. I tentatively reach over and place my hand over your shoulder. Your body is shaking with sobs, and I don't know what to do.

"Shane…" you cry. "Do you really think you're worthless?"

My throat is too thick to talk, so I nod.

"But, what about me? Do you know how much that would hurt me?" you shriek.

"I'm sorry…I'm sorry," I murmur, pulling you into my arms and crying into your hair. It's a while until we pull out of the parking lot.

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**I think the next chapter will be a journal entry. Maybe. We'll see.**


	5. Journal: Hannah Montana?

**I decided to update because writing this was fun. Sorry for anyone who likes Hannah Montana, I'm just trying to make this story funnier. **

**And I saw Nick Jonas on Saturday! It was awesome!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Camp Rock, Disney would never let this amount of smack be talked about their precious little Hannah.**

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February 5, 2010

Today, I feel…crappy. I went to the studio with Nate and Jason. We were held up by Hannah Montana, though. Apparently, she was throwing a hissy fit about her dad working on our next album with us. Boohoo, so Daddy won't have time for his little angel. Please. No one likes her except for little prepubescent girls who have no taste in music. Just a bunch of tweeny boppers.

…

Okay, I take back that last statement, since we have the same audience who listens to our music. But still, she has no talent, she can't sing, she can't dance, and I swear I saw her trying to flirt with Nate. She knows well enough that Nate's dating Caitlyn. Although Cait may not be as high profile, she's on her way to becoming the biggest producer ever. And she'd never produce a Hannah Montana CD. Ha, take that.

Anyways, so we got there and the little blonde diva was with her hot pink haired friend, looking pissed off. We walked up to her and she just glared at us. Correction, she glared at me and Jase but gave Nate some flirty glances.

So, she prevented us from entering the recording room, therefore making us miss our time slot to record. I swear to God, if she wasn't Robby Ray's daughter, I'd strangle her. She's so crazy, she needs a straitjacket.

But enough about her.

So what made my day even crappier is our limo driver got stuck in traffic. That meant we had to either A) go home with Robby Ray and the she-devil, or B) wait there for the three hours it took for the limo to reach us. It's pretty obvious which one we choose.

It started raining, and my careful 3 hour styling of my hair was ruined in 3 seconds. It started curling! The horror!

To make matters worse, apparently teen girls like to wait around the recording studio, waiting for unsuspecting rock stars (or brats in Hannah's case) to be caught. We spent the next hour signing posters (in the rain, let me remind you) and taking pictures. Normally, I'd be okay with that, but not with my curly hair! By now, I bet it's circulating the internet: _Shane Gray- Hair Disaster_!

Eventually, the limo came, and we dragged our soggy butts into it. Oh yeah, the heater was broken too. So we drove for an hour freezing since we were wet and cold.

All of this could have been prevented if Hannah wasn't such an obnoxious whore.

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**Kinda short, but I thought it'd be a break to all the serious stuff from before.**

**Please review! Tell me what you think about Hannah (or Miley).**


	6. A Break?

**Here's another update because I love you. :) No one really reads this anyway, but to the few that do, I love you ;) Enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Camp Rock, just this awkward story.  
**

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You know what they say, expect the unexpected. But what if the unexpected is rather expectable?

I'm talking about our first fight since I was diagnosed with depression. We could see it coming, at least I could see it coming from a mile away. Tensions were running high and we were both stressed. It was about time for one of us to snap.

Unfortunately, I snap first.

* * *

"Mitch, please, just go away," I breathe out heavily. I'm on the verge of a breakdown and you just won't leave me alone.

"Shane, let me in! I can help you!" you whine on the other side of the door. I've locked myself in the bathroom and you won't stop trying to get in.

"No you fucking can't! Just leave me the fuck alone!" I yell at you. I put my face in my hands and start roughly rubbing it. You've been on my back ever since we got back from seeing my therapist. Always keeping your eyes on me, as if you expect me to kill myself at any moment. Honestly, it's a bit creepy having someone watching you 24/7. And I thought the paparazzi were bad.

"Shane, just calm down-"

"How can I calm down when you're breathing down my fucking neck every second?! God… I need some water," I wheeze out. Oh great, I'm having a panic attack. I crawl to the sink and grab a glass, quickly filling it with water. I gulp it down, almost choking, but I swallow it all in 2 gulps. I try to even out my breathing, but it's still rough and uneven. I close my eyes and try to think of how we were before. How happy and unparanoid you were before. Now, my 'disease' has caused you to become an overbearing control freak. I can barely stand it; I can barely stand you.

"Mitchie, the best way you can help me is by leaving me alone," I say after a few quiet minutes. It's easier to breathe and you've stopped pounding on the door, so I'm calmer now.

"Shane, please... you don't understand how important this is..." you whimper from the other side. My ears perk up hearing you like this. You're usually so composed, in control, to hear you cry now is scary.

I open the door and see you leaning against the wall next to the door. I take a seat next to you and put my hand on your knee.

"Shane, I'm sorry I've been so... controlling lately," you murmur.

I rub your knee, trying to console you. Who's here to console me? "It's okay, I'm sorry I've been so weird lately," I answer.

You start shaking your head. "Shane... I think it's best if we take a break..."

My hand falls off your leg. "Wh-what?" I stutter. You can't be serious...

You turn to me. "All this drama isn't good for me... You know how I am. I want everything to go perfect, but now..."

"But now I'm not perfect?" I ask, my expression hardening.

You stare helplessly at me.

I scoff. "So the moment something goes wrong, you go running? Well then, have a good life." I get up and walk to the front door. I open it and glare at you, daring you to leave my house. You choke back a sob and slowly start walking out the door. You pause in the doorway and turn to me.

"Shane, I'm sor-"

"Don't you dare fucking say you're sorry," I hiss at you.

You glare at me. "You wanted me to leave earlier," you point out, slightly angry.

I laugh mirthlessly. "Yeah, well now I really do want you to leave." I give you a gentle but firm push out the door and close it. I lean against the door as I fall to the ground, tears running down my face.

Now what?

You were the glue that held me together. You were the reason I kept going. Now that you don't want me... I don't want myself anymore.

I sit there, crying like a pathetic baby for a while. After about an hour, I stop pitying myself. Why should I blame myself for all your problems? Maybe it's not me, maybe you just... just...  
I sigh as I realize it is me. _I_ am the problem, I'm always the problem. My eyes water again as I start degrading myself.

"I can't do this..." I mumble. Actually, I can do this, I just don't want to. An idea pops in my head and I go running for my journal. I open to a new page and start writing.

**February 13, 2010  
Wow, we couldn't even make it to Valentine's day. How fucked up can I be to mess that up? **

**If you can't tell, Mitchie broke up with me.**

**Whatever, I don't need that bitch anyway. She was really clingy and controlling...**

**Then why do I miss her?**

**I really can't do this anymore, Mitchie was the anchor keeping me to this earth. Without her, I'm nothing. I'll float away...**

**I think I'm starting to already.**

I look at what I'd written. Am I really that pathetic? Is Mitchie my everything?

Yes.

I feel my heart tear in two. She's really gone...

I need to do something, but at the same time, I don't want to do anything.

This is what it must feel like to want to die.

I go back into the bathroom (the scene of the crime) and open the medicine cabinet. I take out a bottle of Advil and swallow a handful of pills. Even if it doesn't kill me, it's got to be enough to numb this pain.

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**So... what do you think? Please review!**


	7. If You Weren't Here

**Ugh, this became exactly what I didn't want it to: a story. I wanted this to by my own little 'therapy' session thingy. Oh well. This has turned into the same kind of bullshit story that you read in other fanfics. I wanted to be more thought provoking. I guess you'll just have to look back at my earlier chapters. :\**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Camp Rock. If I did, Shane would be depressed and Mitchie would be clingy xD  
**

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The next thing I know, I'm waking up to a bright Sunday morning and numbness in my head.

"Damn it," I curse under my breath, rubbing my head. It doesn't hurt, it's more of the absence of feeling that's making me rub it. It feels weird and awkward.

I sit up and look at my clock. 7 am. Even when I'm not trying to kill myself, I never wake up this early.

Then I remember.

It's Valentine's Day.

I close my eyes as tears start springing up. _I don't need her, I don't need her_, I chant in my head. After a minute, I give up. Who am I kidding? You are my life, and now you're gone.

You may not be perfect, but neither am I.

I groggily get out of bed and trudge over to the bathroom, the bathroom I used to share with you. You would stay here 6 days a week and then tend to your own apartment for the last day, usually a Monday.

I guess we aren't sharing anymore, though.

I go through my medicine cabinet, looking for some kind of face wash to help me wake up more, when I see it. My eyes widen, I never bought it and I haven't seen it in there before.

Laxatives.

I gingerly pick it up. I hate them. They make you have to _go_, you know. Maybe you had an upset stomach or something. I go to throw it out when I decide to keep them. Maybe I'll get sick and need them. I put them back in my cabinet, but something still doesn't seem right.

After bathing, shaving and a quick breakfast, I decide to go find you and make things right.

You're my girlfriend, my one and only, and hopefully my wife one day. I'll never forgive myself if I let you go. I head out to your place in my BMW wearing a black jacket, white teeshirt, and some skinny jeans. Gotta keep it real.

I lean over my steering wheel as I inch along in the rush hour traffic. Why does everyone just **have** to go out on Valentine's Day? It's not even dinner time, or date time as I call it. I sigh and continue my slow paced trek to your apartment. After 45 minutes on the highway, I finally turn off and drive to your street. I park in front of your apartment building and take a deep breath before getting out of my car

This can go two ways. Either I will show up, you will cry, and we'll work it out, or I show up, you hit me and throw me out. Either way, I'm nervous.

I finally make it to your apartment: C303. I've always loved your number, it's the name of one of my favorite bands, 3OH!3. I hesitantly knock and hear some shuffling around.

You open the door wearing a robe, your face flushed with exertion of something. You quickly pale, though, as soon as you see me.

"Shane," you silently say, your wide eyes tracking my every move.

I look down before answering you. "I know you probably hate me, but I wanted to say I'm sorry and we should work this out." I look back up to see you still staring at me. You think for a second before letting me in.

I quickly step in and you close the door, pulling your robe on tighter. "Shane... I'm sorry too..." you mumble.

I give you a small smile and pull you towards me, rubbing your back. I gasp when your arm touches mine.

"Mitchie," I say shocked. "Why is your arm ice cold?" I take your hands and feel that they're even colder.

I stare at your eyes, trying to get an answer. You glare at me, yanking your hands away.

"It's just really cold in here..." you mutter.

I roll my eyes. "Mitchie, it's like 80 degrees in here, it's so not cold," I argue.

You glare at me and walk off to the kitchen. I follow, looking for answers. You just sit at the kitchen table and watch me with a look of disdain on your face. You cross your arms and grit your teeth.

"It's cold outside," you say, raising your eyebrows, daring me to challenge you.

I slam my hands on the table. "You weren't outside," I say accusingly, my eyes narrowed at you. "You were doing some hard work inside or something, and you're wearing a robe. There's no way in hell you were outside."

We have a glaring contest for what feels like hours. I have an idea at what you're hiding from me, but I really hope it's not true.

"Fine, if you're not going to talk, I'm gonna eat something, ok?" I mutter. I open your fridge, only to see nothing in it.

Out of nowhere, you burst out in sobs. My eyes widen as you cry your eyes out. When I try to help you, you just push me away.

"Why do you have to be so mean to me?!" you scream in between tears. I sigh; why do you always have to be so much work?

Suddenly, your wheezing gets out of control. You stop crying and focus on trying to get air down your throat, but it's not working. You stare at me wide eyed as you clutch your throat.

I stay frozen for a second before I go running for the phone, my fingers fumbling as I dial 911.

"911, what's your emergency?" a feminine voice says boredly on the phone. It must suck to sit at a desk all day waiting for someone to call.

"Hi, yeah, my gi-girlfriend, she's chok- well, I don't know what's happening, she just can't breathe," I quickly sputter out, my eyes glancing nervously at you every few seconds.

"Wait, are you… Shane Gray?" the girl asks, recognition in her voice.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, just please, bring an ambulance to 100 Ocean Avenue," I sigh. Why do I have to be famous?

The girl agrees and everything that happens afterwards is a blur. They come, whisk you into the ambulance with me trailing behind. They put the breathing thing around your mouth and nose as I hold your hand. It's more of a one-sided holding though, you're apparently still mad at me. We get to the hospital and they take you into a room, leaving me to fill out forms.

* * *

I creep into your room about a half an hour later.

"Hey Mitchie," I whisper when I see you're awake and staring out the window. You turn, glare at me, then go back to looking out the window.

I sigh. "You can't be mad at me forever. Can you at least tell me why you're mad?"

You whip your head to me. "You want to know why I'm mad?! How about the way you tried to make me look like an asshole last night! I asked for a break, I never said anything against you. You don't understand what I'm going through," you hiss at me.

I humorlessly laugh. "And you understand what I'm going through? Mitchie, I tried to kill myself last night. Kill myself. As in never coming back. You're lucky I'm even talking to you now."

"Oh yeah, like you're the only one with problems. The whole universe completely revolves around you, doesn't it?" you scream at me.

I get ready to fight back when the doctor comes in.

"So, Michelle, your tests are back and it seems you had a panic attack," he says.

You roll your eyes. "Can I leave now?" you snap at him, starting to take the IV's out of your arms. The doctor stops you, a sad smile on his face.

"I'm sorry, but you can't. It was brought on by starvation." You instantly lay back and look away, a pissed off look on your face. I gawk at you. I had suspected you had an eating disorder, but suspecting and knowing are two different things.

The doctor looks between us for a second. "I'll leave you two alone…" he says and starts walking towards me. He leans into my ear and says, "You're gonna have to keep an eye on her, maybe put her in an eating disorder program, okay?"

I shudder, but nod my head. He pats my back and leaves the room, leaving us alone.

I look at the ground, letting the silence consume us. You're still looking away, your arms crossed as if this is somehow my fault. Finally, I can't take it.

"Mitchie, why are you acting like you're mad at me?" I ask you exasperatedly.

"Maybe because it's all your fault!" you explode, clenching your hands. I take a step back.

"My fault?! What the hell have I ever done to you?" I shout back.

"YOU BROKE MY HEART!" you cry out, bursting into tears (again).

I cover my face with my hands and let out a silent scream. This is way too fucked up for me to handle. I take a few deep breaths before hesitantly sitting on your bed.

"How did I break your heart?" I ask lowly.

You look up at me, tears still clinging to your eyelashes. "When someone tells you they want to die, you take it personally. Was I not enough to keep you here? Did I disgust you? Did you blame me for everything? I didn't know, and I hate not knowing, you know that. I needed to be in control, and my food consumption was one of the only things I had left," you silently say.

I slowly shake my head. "Here, look at this," I mumble, pulling out my journal. I'd been required to bring it everywhere, so I give it to you to show you my last entry. You flinch at the part where I call you a bitch, but otherwise don't show emotion.

When you're done, you look up at me. "You really tried to kill yourself last night?" you ask.

I grimace and nod. "I thought I had nothing left to live for. I don't know what I would do if you weren't here," I say absently. You take my hand into yours, a surprising move seeing as not even an hour ago, you were trying to yank your hand away from mine.

"I think we need help," you softly say.

I snort. "Understatement of the century."

You giggle and we tightly hold hands together.

I look up into your eyes. "So I guess we're together again?"

You smile, a real genuine one. "Definitely.

And then we seal the deal with a kiss.

* * *

**The end? I don't know. You tell me. If you want, I might post another chapter. Like an epilogue or something. The majority wins, so start reviewing. :)**


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